


The Boxer

by rubygirl29



Series: The Boxer Series [1]
Category: The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-05
Updated: 2012-09-05
Packaged: 2017-11-13 14:30:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/504486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubygirl29/pseuds/rubygirl29
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Another version of how they met. Just because I can't leave well enough alone!</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Boxer

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Note: Just something that came to my mind as I was listening to Jerry Douglas/Mumford and Sons version of _The Boxer_ , which has always broken my heart. 
> 
> One possible trigger warning for mentions of past abuse. Not explicit. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Marvel owns the characters. Simon and Garfunkel own the lyrics. I own nothing but my imagination.

The young man sitting in the holding cell at S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters is wearing black jeans and a tight black t-shirt. Both are soaked from the rain outside. There is a stream of rain-thinned blood running from a gash near his temple, staining his dark blond hair. He is muscular, but too thin, as if he's half-starved. His cheeks are pale and hollow. He is bent over his knees, shaking apart in front of Phil's eyes. 

"This is the infiltrator?" Coulson asks incredulously. "This is the guy who made his way past all of our security protocols and several highly trained agents?"

S.H.I.E.L.D. Director Nick Fury folds his arms. "He may also be responsible for a series of killings."

"I've read the reports," Phil says. "The vics were scum. Child molesters, rapists, vicious con artists preying on the poor."

"They were shot through the eyes with arrows," Fury says. "This isn't Robin Hood."

"No," Coulson sighs. "What do you want me do to with him?"

"Turn him into an asset or kill him. It's up to you."

"And if it were up to you?" Coulson asks.

"He'd be dead right now." Fury sweeps out in a rustle of black leather. 

"Right," Phil sighs. He looks at the prisoner. As he watches, the young man slides off the bench in a faint. "Medical to holding cell eight," he speaks into his mike. "Do not approach the subject until I am with you."

Coulson is at the door before the medics. He opens it and with his gun trained on the man's body, he nudges him with his shoe, then gently pushes him to his back. The young man moves like a coiled spring and Phil pulls out a taser and fells him. He looks down at the twitching body and sighs. "Okay, get him to the infirmary. Better sedate and restrain him." He kneels beside the unconscious vigilante. He's pale, his skin is cold to the touch. His lips are white. He has ridiculous eyelashes that make him look far too young and vulnerable. Appearances are deceiving. Phil looks like an accountant; that doesn't mean that he is one.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
Phil is sitting in an excruciatingly uncomfortable chair in the high-security area of S.H.I.E.L.D. medical waiting for the unconscious man to wake up from the heavy sedation he was placed under while he was being treated. There hasn't been any change and Phil wonders if if the doctors were heavy-handed with the drugs, or if he's simply exhausted. He looks tired enough with those dark shadows under his eyes. He's not as young as Phil had thought. The doctors guess from his well-developed physique that he's in his late twenties; he still looks younger to Phil. 

The doctor looks in, a faint frown on her face. "He isn't awake?"

"Should he be?"

She sighs and leans against the wall. "Does he have any family?"

Coulson's brow lifts. "He's that ill?"

"No in that way." She sighs. "It's just ... He's seriously underweight, anemic, dehydrated. His blood chemistry is all over the place. His x-rays are indicative of serious injuries in the past. Possibly a history of physical abuse, as well as more recent hairline fractures of his metacarpal bones, he has the hands of a boxer -- or rather of a bare-knuckles fighter. He's fighting a low-grade infection, probably from a deep cut along his ribs. "

Phil is appalled. "Anything else?"

"Nothing medical, but some issues that might impact him psychologically."

Phil doesn't need that spelled out for him. His cell phone vibrates and he looks at the number. "Thank you, Doctor." He answers Fury's call. "Sir?"

"Our uninvited guest is one Francis Clinton Barton. He has a record of minor offenses, including an arrest for participating in unauthorized cage fighting, and one assault charge that was dropped when the victim - and I use that word lightly - declined to press charges due to his own criminal record. He was later found dead."

"Let me guess, with an arrow through the eye. What charges was he facing?"

"Child molestation and abuse. For this one, I wouldn't begrudge Mr. Barton his revenge. Is he awake yet?"

"No, sir."

"I'll send another agent to guard him."

"I'll stay."

"Two hours," Fury replies. "I don't pay you to be a high-priced baby-sitter." 

"Yes, sir."

He scrolls through his messages before he puts the phone away. When he looks up, Barton is awake, tugging against the restraints and looking like a wild-eyed colt. Phil doesn't touch him, but he moves into Barton's field of vision. "If you stop fighting the restraints, I'll take them off. If you try anything, you know I have a taser."

Barton stills. "Yeah. I remember." He pulls his wrists against the leather. "Please?"

"Manners. That's unexpected." Phil releases the straps. "Do you know where you are?"

"S.H.I.E.L.D. headquarters. Your security sucks." 

His lips are dry and cracked. Phil holds a cup of water to his lips. "Apparently."

He drinks, one hand on Phil's wrist to steady the cup. His fingers are still cold. "Thanks. Are you going to let me out of here? I can be discreet."

Coulson snorts. "Seriously? You break into one of the most secure government agencies on the face of the earth and you think you can just walk out of here?"

"Am I a prisoner?"

Phil sighs. "Right now, you're a patient in our medical facility."

"With restraints."

"With IVs," Phil says patiently. "We'll talk when you feel better, Mr. Barton."

"You know who I am?"

"There is very little I don't know, Mr. Barton. I'll be back tomorrow. Meanwhile, behave yourself and let the doctors do their job."

"You could have killed me," Barton says quietly. "Maybe you should have."

"Mr. Barton, I can kill you with a paperclip, so your death is still a possibility."

Barton laughs, a light, carefree sound that surprises Coulson. "Yeah. I got it -- "

"Agent Coulson."

"It suits you." The effect is ruined by a yawn. Phil leaves the room, but pauses to look through the glass panel. Barton is nestling his cheek against the pillow and curling on his side, like this is the softest, kindest place he's been in years. 

It hurts Phil like a bruise to the heart. 

^*^*^*^*^*^*^  
The next time he sees Barton, he's shoveling down a stack of pancakes, eggs and sausages like it's his last meal. Coulson watches for a moment from the door before he goes inside. "There is more where that came from. All you have to do is ask."

Barton chokes on the mouthful of food and takes a swallow of juice before he speaks. "Agent Coulson, right?"

"You remember."

Barton tilts his head and grins. "You never forget your first tazing." 

Phil pulls up a chair. "Go ahead, finish your breakfast and we'll go for a walk."

"Like outside?"

"Like down the hall. It's raining."

"Fuck," he sighs and sets his fork down as if that bit of information had cut off his appetite. Coulson knows better than to ask why. Instead, he goes out to see if Barton can be off the IV for an hour.

"Where are we going?" Barton asks once he's freed from the IV and has a blue terry robe on over borrowed hospital scrubs.

"Someplace that isn't medical." They walk down the hall to an elevator and ride up a few floors. The doors open onto an empty hallway and another set of sliding doors. Coulson types in a code and a the doors slide open with a hiss.

"The S.H.I.E.L.D. weapons range." He walks down a long table. "Guns, knifes, unconventional weapons ... and one recurve bow." He holds the bow gently. "I believe this is yours."

Barton's eyes are wide. "My bow? I thought ..." He takes the bow in his hands and Coulson thinks it looks like it was made for the renegade archer. "I could kill you in the blink of an eye," Clint says.

Coulson sighs. "You won't."

"You're sure of that?"

"You have a highly developed sense of justice and responsibility. Whether or not you believe me, we're the good guys. And you don't have arrows."

Clint tests the draw of his bow. "I don't need arrows, Coulson. But I don't suppose I can have them?" 

"Not until you're medically cleared."

Barton looks at him suspiciously. "Why are you doing this?"

"This?"

"Keeping my bow. Taking care of me when killing me would have been easier and cheaper."

"You're smart. You'll figure it out."

"I'm beginning to think you kind of like me, Coulson."

"That's Agent Coulson."

"So, your first name is _Agent_?"

Phil ignores the question until they are back on the medical floor and the nurse is hooking Barton back up to the IV. He is pale again, as if the brief outing has worn him out. He settles back against the pillows. "See you around, Agent."

"Be a good boy and eat all your veggies and I'll let you take target practice in a few days."

"Are you trying to seduce me?" Barton flutters those ridiculous lashes at Phil. 

"If I said yes, what would you do?" Phil counters.

Barton's cheeks flush slightly. "Try me and find out." 

This has to stop, Coulson decides. "Director Fury will want to talk to you tomorrow. He's not nearly as nice as I am." He turns and walks away. This time he doesn't look back.

^*^*^*^*^*^*^

There are two files in Phil's email; one brief, one considerably longer. Phil opens the brief one. It is what little background the analysts have been able to dig up about one Francis Clinton Barton. It is unusual, but clinically presented. Phil reads it with interest, however. The next file is a medical and psychological profile. Phil reads that too, then replies with a carefully worded analysis of his own, sending it "eyes only" to Director Fury. He puts in a call to Jasper Sitwell, his senior agent. 

"Boss?" Sitwell looks in. "You wanted to see me?"

"I'm assigning a new asset to you."

"Robin Hood?"

Phil rubs the knot of pain forming between his brows. "His name is Clint Barton. I'm not sure he'd take kindly to that particular nickname." 

"Yes, sir." That's what Phil likes about Sitwell. He knows when Phil means business. 

"I'm sending you two files. Read them, and delete them as far up the chain as you can except for myself and Director Fury. If I hear even a whisper of what is in those files, I'll know where it came from."

"Understood, sir." Sitwell digs in his pocket. "Security found a backpack stowed in an air vent. I went through it and found this." He holds out a scuffed, well-used iPod and ear buds. "I thought maybe he'd like his tunes. It's pretty dull being laid up in medical." That's another point Phil gives to Jasper. He's surprisingly perceptive and occasionally kind.

After he leaves, Phil turns on the iPod and scrolls through the playlist. It's surprisingly eclectic. Mostly hard rock, but some jazz and even Beethoven's _Moonlight Sonata_. His mind conjures up an impression of the archer practicing to the slow, achingly beautiful music; muscles taut in the moonlight, his eyes shadowed and fixed on his target ... It's a momentary flash against his eyelids and he winces as his head throbs. 

He needs an aspirin. He boots up his iPad and finds the file he's looking for, transferring it quickly to Barton's device, moving it to the top of the playlist. Then he takes his aspirin, washes it down with a cup of strong black coffee and waits for it to kick in against his headache. It takes a while, but once he feels human again, he makes his way back to medical. Barton wakes up when Phil opens his door. "It's not tomorrow," he mumbles.

"I've been authorized to bring you on board as an asset," Phil says bluntly.

"And if I say I don't want to be an asset?"

"I get out my paperclip." He's joking, mostly. 

Barton shakes his head. "You're willing to take that chance? I'm nobody's hero, you know what I've done."

"I know what you've done and who you've killed. I'm throwing you a lifeline. If you're as smart as I think you are, you'll take it. You don't want to go into the prison population, Barton."

He looks like Phil's punched him in the gut. His fingers fist in the blankets and his heart monitor betrays him. He takes a careful breath. "I guess I'm your man. I don't know why."

"Leave that up to me. We'll talk more later." He holds out the iPod. "Something to help you pass the time."

Barton takes it, but won't meet Phil's eyes. "Thanks. It's ... it's kinda dull here."

"I added a song to your playlist."

"Yeah?" he looks suspicious. "Secret Agent Man?"

Phil just smiles and leaves. He pauses to watch for a moment. Barton presses the power button and hits play. As the music starts, his eyes widen and then close; tears glitter on the ends of his eyelashes and leak to the pillow beneath his head. 

Phil was right in choosing the song. He hopes he is right in choosing the man. 

****

**The Boxer**

I am just a poor boy  
Though my story's seldom told  
I have squandered my resistance  
For a pocket full of mumbles such are promises  
All lies and jests  
Still a man hears what he wants to hear  
And disregards the rest 

When I left my home and my family  
I was no more than a boy  
In the company of strangers  
In the quiet of the railway station running scared  
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters  
Where the ragged people go  
Looking for the places only they would know 

Asking only workman's wages  
I come looking for a job  
But I get no offers,  
Just a come-on from the whores on Seventh Avenue  
I do declare, there were times when I was so lonesome  
I took some comfort there 

Then I'm laying out my winter clothes  
And wishing I was gone  
Going home  
Where the New York City winters aren't bleeding me  
Bleeding me, going home ...

In the clearing stands a boxer  
And a fighter by his trade  
And he carries the reminders  
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down  
Or cut him till he cried out  
In his anger and his shame  
"I am leaving, I am leaving"  
But the fighter still remains ...

(The Boxer by Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel copyrighted)

**The End**


End file.
